


Free Drinks

by hellkitty



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Crack, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-23
Updated: 2014-08-23
Packaged: 2018-02-14 09:33:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2186652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A follow on to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/2176590">   Whole Numbers </a>. Swerve considers himself the gossipmeister, what can I say?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Free Drinks

"So....." Swerve's smile was bigger than his faceplate as he greeted the two medics, the kind of grin he only whipped out when he was trying to be obsequious.  Ratchet figured no one had the heart, or common sense, to tell him how creepy he looked. At least Verity had told Ratchet….and besides, that had been his holoavatar, so he had an excuse.

Still, Ratchet and First Aid had walked into his bar, so the smile, and the inevitable prying to follow were really just an admission fee, Ratchet figured. "So, Ratchet. How are, you know...things."

"Things."  Yeah, just because the prying was inevitable didn't mean Ratchet had to play nice.  "Want to be a bit more specific?"

Swerve ducked down, coming up with two glasses of swirly pearlescent blue liquid. "On the house!"

Right.  Ratchet knew where this was going.  First Aid didn't--he was still at that point where free drinks made him a little giddy, even before he'd taken a sip.  But free drinks?  Oh, Swerve was playing hardball.

"You know.   _Things_."  The supraorbital ridges waggled knowingly. "With Perceptor."

"You should ask him." Then again, Ratchet liked Perceptor. It was kind of mean to wish Swerve on him. 

"I did!" Swerve said.  "But he went that kind of chilly cold like he does and he kept looking at me through that targeting reticle optic thing," a flutttery hand gesture toward his face, "like he was thinking about shooting me. What's that supposed to mean?"

"Probably that he was fantasizing about shooting you." Perceptor and just about every other mech who fell under the dread beam of Swerve's curiosity.  Ratchet was feeling a little like punching him himself. "Besides. Patient confidentiality.  I can't talk about his treatment." If they gave prizes for stonewalling, Ratchet would have a shelf full of them.

Swerve looked disappointed, for a minute, almost outclassed. But Swerve didn't know the meaning of 'giving up', at least where gossip was concerned, so after a klik, he threw his head back and laughed that slightly too loud laugh you do when you don’t get what’s supposed to be funny but you don’t want to admit it. "That's a, a, what you call them?  Euphemism, right?  Ratchet, you're the funniest. His _treatment._ I'll bet he gets ‘treated’. Hard. A lot."  Almost as hard as Swerve was airquoting. Weren't you supposed to stop after you'd finished the word you were airquoting, anyway? 

Ugh, if there was one thing Ratchet could stand even less than nosy mechs, it was this sort of wink nudge lascivious jokiness.  Still, the drink was actually pretty darn good, and the way the blue stuff fizzed through his fuel lines felt almost heavenly after a long day.  And besides, he deserved a little fun. And with the way Swerve was setting himself up for it? He’d be cruel to resist. "Oh. That.  Well, ask away."

The look on Swerve's face was pure delighted greed, hands clasping in front of his chassis as if to keep his spark contained, as the small mech decided what to ask first. Apparently that was a hard thing to prioritize.  But he eventually came up with, "So. You know.  He used to be with the ex-Decepticon and all..."

"And?"

"Well, you know, can't blame a mech for wondering where he'd fall on a scale of zero to freaky."

"Freaky."  Really. He was beginning to wonder if Swerve had ever interfaced, because who even called it that?  He took another sip of the drink, as though pondering the question seriously. "Hm. I'd have to rate him at, well, 'freaky deaky'." Which probably wasn't even a word, but he didn't care, and Swerve didn't care either, his whole face lighting up like a prize machine.

"I knew it! I KNEW IT!" Swerve did a little dance behind the bar, with far more aft-wiggling than Ratchet's optics were ready for. If that was a victory dance, well, maybe it was better no side won the war.

Swerve spun around again, intent, chin on hands. "Got any juicy details?"  

"Plenty," Ratchet said, firmly, setting his almost empty glass back down with an obvious eyeballing hint.  Swerve moved to refill it, instantly. Ratchet made sure he had round two solidly in his hands before he said, "Not that I'm going to tell you, though."

"Oh come ON!" Swerve bleated. "You can't do this to me! You can't tease me like that! It's, it's...it's downright kinky!"  

Oh gross. Yeah, that was not a word Ratchet ever wanted to apply to a Ratchet-Swerve combination. His tactic was backfiring.  He could still recover though.

"Yeah, yeah, all right. Look." He caught Swerve squarely in the optics. "I'm just gonna say that you mix one weapon-fetishizing scientist with the mech who knows more cyberpressure points than any other living Cybertronian, and things get," he waited a beat, letting one brow cock up. "Intense."  

Swerve's mouth had fallen open into a slack jawed 'oh', followed by the muffled ping of his interface system turning on. "I. Uh.  True. Uh. Wow. Yeah, I'm gonna...just go off and think about that for a little bit."  

"You do that." Please.  Medic deserved to enjoy his free drinks in peace.  

As Swerve tottered off, optics glazed, First Aid leaned over. "I'm...kind of surprised at you, Ratchet." And by 'surprised' he clearly meant 'disappointed'. 

"What?"

"I mean, you don't seem like the sort to, you know, spill intimate details. I’m feeling like I should tell Perceptor."

Ratchet snorted, taking another drink. "Please.  None of that was true."

"None?"

"Not a word.  But you think he'd believe me if I told him the truth?"

"I guess it depends what the truth is," First Aid said.  

"Truth is, Perceptor hasn't worked up the nerve to even kiss me yet."  Ratchet smirked.  "But hey, a reputation of being a little...'freaky' might do him some good."  The scientist had a sense of humor, after all.  You just had to dig a little to find it.  And there were definitely worse things to have circulating in the gossipsphere.

First Aid looked thoughtful, swirling his own half-empty glass, before looking up and Ratchet could swear there was a glint of challenge in his optics. "You know, Ratchet.  You could always make the first move."

"I could. I won't.  He needs his space."

"I don't know." First Aid swirled his drink around. "I think you're afraid."

"Afraid? Me?  You really think that's going to work?"  Please, First Aid. Really. Tsk. "Afraid of what, exactly?"

"Of all of it. You know, actually caring about someone."

"I care about plenty of people. The entire fraggin' ship." And Drift.  Way more than he should.

"You know what I mean." 

Yeah, he did, and that didn't make it any less uncomfortable. 

"Hey," First Aid said, brightening. "If it helps, I can dare you."

"Whose side are you even on?"  Seriously. Get the mech free drinks--well, okay, ONE free drink--and this was his reward.  Ungrateful. Besides. He didn't need a dare. Maybe.  Okay, he'd been dared.  Fine.  He could do this.  Fraggin' First Aid. 

"I don't know. Maybe the side that wants to see you happy?"

"Pretty small side," Ratchet grumbled.

First Aid gave one of his enigmatic head tilts.  "Bigger than you think." 


End file.
